


all my life i’ve been so lonely (all in the name of being holy)

by frostbitten



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Body Worship, F/F, Getting Together, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Resolved Sexual Tension, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:22:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27715379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostbitten/pseuds/frostbitten
Summary: Morrigan and Leliana dance at the Winter Palace and remember a conversation they'd had ten years prior, regarding dresses and shopping.
Relationships: Leliana/Morrigan (Dragon Age)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 54





	all my life i’ve been so lonely (all in the name of being holy)

**Author's Note:**

> It doesn't come up, but I headcanon Leliana as a nonbinary stone bi sapphic and Morrigan as a nonbinary stone femme lesbian in this fic. I have a permit; I'm a lesbian. I can do what I want.
> 
> If you haven’t already seen their banter from Origins, just google “Leliana Morrigan dress banter,” because you might not understand all of the references I make to it otherwise.

“I see you remembered that little conversation we had about shopping, from all those years ago,” Leliana says, and her demeanor is perfectly demure; her countenance is pleasant and her voice is bell-like and smooth. 

Morrigan (and perhaps Morrigan alone) can see the phantom twitch of her lips that belies a smile. Or at least, she would have ten years ago, before Leliana had steeled her heart. Before she’d become Sister Nightingale and left everything from her old life behind.

“If you expect me to recall every snippet of conversation that we had whilst traveling together, Leliana, I would be torn between whether I should call you conceited or daft,” Morrigan replies in kind, curling her lips into her signature crooked smirk. 

“Not all that torn, I imagine,” Leliana chuckles, guiding Morrigan into a twirl. Her touch had always been warm before, almost uncomfortably so, when she’d applied poultices to Morrigan’s wounds before, back when they’d journeyed together. They’d never been bosom friends, but because of the forced close proximity traveling that together in a small, ragtag, world-saving band entailed, they’d had a grudging mutual respect for each other. 

Now, Morrigan realizes with a start that she misses the heat from Leliana’s skin, because the other woman is cold to the touch—and she acknowledges to herself that Leliana’s touch had not been as unwelcome as she’d pretended it was.

“No,” Morrigan says, golden gaze going wistful, “not that torn.” 

The next part of the dance has Leliana sliding her hand from her hip to the small of her back; she insistently and expertly presses Morrigan close until their foreheads are touching. Every freckle, every warm green fleck in the middle of her icy blue eyes is on display for the Witch of the Wilds. 

The breath feels as though it’s been squeezed out of her lungs; some mage here must have hit her with a low-level lightning spell, Morrigan is certain, because every hair on her neck is standing at attention. She feels positively charged.

“Morrigan,” Leliana murmurs. Their lips are almost touching, merely a hair’s breadth apart. “I did miss you.” 

Before she has time to reply, move, or even think, the dance comes to an end. Leliana releases her with a sheepish look. “Ah, but duty calls, Lady Morrigan.”

“As it ever does,” Morrigan says acridly, with a wrinkle between her brows. “Go on, then. The Inquisition is sorely lost without your guidance, akin to an overgrown pup trailing after its beleaguered mother.” 

“We will finish this discussion at a later time,” Leliana responds. She does give a little half-smile then, appreciating the backhanded compliment for what it truly was: Morrigan so rarely gives praise, and her criticism of the Inquistion only reaffirms her belief in Leliana’s skills. “Until then.” She bows lowly; Morrigan curtsies, and the two women go their separate ways.

—

Morrigan has long-since put Kieran to bed in the adjoining room when there is a soft knock at her door. She eyes it, indulging herself in the thought that she will ignore whoever it may be, when another knock sounds.

“I know you’re awake,” Leliana’s voice lilts smugly. “You’ve always been a night owl, Morrigan.” 

Ignoring the fluttering in her chest, reminiscent of bat wings kissing her ribs, Morrigan opens the door with an archly unamused expression painted on her face. “‘At a later time’ was very unspecific, Leliana. I had been hoping the implied meaning was ‘never.’”

Leliana doesn’t rise to the bait the way she would have ten years prior. Instead, she allows her gaze to trace down Morrigan in her entirety, eyes lingering at her long neck, her exposed clavicles and her deep red velvet bodice, cut low in the front. “You look as lovely as I’d pictured back then,” she says, and there’s something vulnerable and open about her that so rarely is anymore. 

Morrigan’s first instinct is to deflect by saying something cuttingly mocking, but she refrains. Her temper has cooled some, in part because of Kieran, but primarily because she’s no longer living under Flemeth’s thumb, no longer choked out by noxious weeds but allowed to flower and thrive. 

She waits out the impulse and says, “what else did you picture back then?”

Leliana’s eyes glitter. “It is so difficult to explain it with clumsy words. Could I show you instead?” 

Morrigan is old enough to let herself want things unreservedly. She will, however, never stop being young enough to tease. “I had been about to retire to my quarters and fall asleep before your unannounced visit. I am  _ awfully _ tired...but I admit my curiosity has been piqued.”

Leliana’s already striding across the room when she says, “I’m rather fond of pillow talk.”

—

“Red velvet,” Leliana murmurs in her ear, kissing just behind it. “Like a vision, tailor-made for me.” 

“I see you are flattering yourself, Leliana,” Morrigan manages to say; her voice is just about to tremble, and she shuts her mouth promptly when Leliana ghosts open-mouthed kisses down the side of neck. 

“The gold embroidery was more subtle than I would have chosen, but it drew my eyes closer, so perhaps your choice reigns superior.” 

Morrigan is relieved she’d already removed her heavy golden skull necklace, because Leliana doesn’t have to stop to undo its clasp and put it elsewhere. Instead, she can do what she’s doing: trailing burning kisses down her collarbone and across the tops of her breasts; Morrigan gasps low in her throat. Her cheeks have flushed a becoming and delicate shade of red. Everything looks softer in the candlelight. 

“Would you still sooner let Alistair dress you?” Leliana asks, making direct eye contact with Morrigan. 

She grimaces as though the question physically pains her. “Do not mention  _ him _ while we are—“ Morrigan’s complaint is cut prematurely short when Leliana cups her face and kisses her mouth. 

Morrigan does away with the pretense of being scarcely interested and snakes her arms around Leliana, kissing back eagerly, hungrily. Eventually, they remember that they need to breathe and break apart, still within each other’s embrace. 

“I want you, Morrigan,” Leliana says, voice low, nipping gently at her plush bottom lip. “To kiss you and touch you and lie beside you, asleep or awake, to know where you are with a certainty greater than letters can provide.” She kisses Morrigan again and licks the seam of her mouth. “To taste you.” Her eyes gleam like they’re molten gold. “Can I have you?”

Morrigan’s throat is buttoned tight with impassioned emotions and words she’s never said before, never even dared think to herself alone in the dark. “Yes,” she says, swallowing thickly. Her golden gaze has never been so intense—if Leliana were anyone else, she might feel pinned in place, like a prey animal.

But she isn’t just anyone else. 

_ “Ma chérie,” _ Leliana sighs sweetly into the space between them, tone shot through with affection and wordless promises. _ “Mon trésor,” _ she continues, pressing her lips to Morrigan’s cheek; something thaws within the Witch of the Wilds that she had never known to be frozen. 

“Let me remove this corset. You must be feeling its effects.” Morrigan can only nod, completely rendered speechless. Leliana’s fingers are deft and precise; she supposes the other woman has had far more practice at unlacing corsets than she has. They’d led rather different lives, had different childhoods.

Her train of thought sputters to an abrupt halt when Leliana begins kissing each new inch of skin the loosened corset reveals. Her lips are startlingly warm, Morrigan notes absently as they quirk into the shape of a smile against her back. 

“And what is it that you are so pleased about?” She inquires, arching a dark brow. Leliana huffs a quiet laugh. 

“That you are beautiful even in your impatience.”

“Impatient?” Morrigan considers this, feels the way she feels only seconds away from bursting into flames that’d been stoked by Leliana’s caresses. “You made me this way.” 

“Not so.” Leliana is gentle and undemanding as she slips the dress down Morrigan’s body, folding it neatly in half and settling it over the chair that holds her corset. “You’ve always been like this, both ambitious and self-serving.”

Morrigan opens her mouth to argue, but Leliana’s hands land on her hips and pull her close, effectively nipping any arguments in the bud. “But I like you like this. You take what you want, whatever pleases you.” She thumbs at the band of Morrigan’s underwear. “I want you to take your pleasure from me, Morrigan. I want to be the only one who warms your bed like this. I want to be the only one in your heart.” 

Morrigan sucks violet bruises into Leliana’s throat, making her laugh, making her moan. “I suppose I’m selfish, too,” Leliana says. 

She guides Morrigan to her bed, hands grabbing her hips with a more pressing sense of urgency. Morrigan wraps her leg around Leliana’s and falls backward, bringing them flush against each other. 

“Do you ever cease  _ talking?” _ Morrigan fumbles for the belt holding Leliana’s jacket in place, then the sash. “Are all of your lovers subjected to such monologues, or am I simply special?”

Leliana is slow to unbutton the two toggles fastening her jacket shut, enraptured by the sheer, honest desire in those piercing eyes. “You aren’t  _ simply _ anything.” Morrigan doesn’t have a snarky retort for that. Her attention is utterly fixed on the slow slide of Leliana’s jacket from her shoulders to the floor and the thin camisole that does little to obscure Leliana’s breasts, nor the dip of her torso as it gives way to her hips. The woman before her is a battle-worn canvas. 

“Did this hurt?” Morrigan runs her fingers across a silvery scar etched into Leliana’s bicep that she doesn’t recognize.

“They all hurt.” Leliana pulls Morrigan into her lap and brackets her thighs around her hips. “But life hurts. This is just proof of existence.” 

Morrigan weaves her fingers into her hair and pulls Leliana in for a life-affirming kiss, fierce and sweet and just this side shy of painful. This time, they don’t stop until Leliana is pressing Morrigan back against the mattress. 

_ “Mon ange,” _ Leliana whispers against her neck, “let me make you  _ sing.” _

“I was led to believe singing was more your forte, given your ‘Nightingale’ nom de plume,” Morrigan murmurs, the ghost of a smile flirting with her lips. “Yet I can carry a tune well enough, if it pleases you.” 

“It pleases me,” Leliana tells her, tugging her underwear down her hips. They land somewhere out of sight and out of mind, and Morrigan finds herself unable to dwell on that when Leliana is parting her thighs and kissing at them. 

“Leliana,” she groans, fingers twining into her hair. 

Leliana pets her hip. “Patience, my sweet,” she murmurs tenderly. “Just this once, I beg for your patience.” 

Morrigan gives it to her. Leliana’s lips touch everywhere but the one place she wants them the most, but as promised, she holds her wicked tongue and gives her time.

Finally, Leliana kisses her folds, then slips her tongue between them. Morrigan’s breath catches. She’s slick and throbbing and Leliana’s tongue is clever; it knows what she needs. 

The litany of noises falling from her lips would embarrass her if it were anyone else knelt between her legs, but with Leliana, her arousal only climbs as she allows herself this bit of vulnerability. “More...”

“Yes, darling,” Leliana responds lightly, licking a firm stripe against her clit once, twice, three times before she takes it into her mouth and sucks.

Morrigan trembles, she moans, thighs tightening around Leliana’s head as she sinks into her pleasure, taking it, as advised, from the other woman and pressing closer to her face. Leliana takes the hint and gently scrapes her teeth against her clit as she teases her hole with the pad of her index fingers.

The Witch of the Wilds swallows a scream. “Leliana,” she begs, the rest of her request devolving into a keening cry. Leliana thinks she knows what Morrigan had meant to say and slides her finger forward into that tight, slick heat, rubbing inside her as she continues to service her with something approaching worship. 

Morrigan squirms against Leliana, trying shy away from the intensity of her impending climax, but Leliana only holds her in place with her free hand, pinning her down like it’s no effort at all.

Morrigan cums loudly, hips stuttering as she paints the bottom half of Leliana’s face with silky wetness. Leliana pulls back once she’s genuinely writhing from overstimulation, leaving biting kisses against her trembling thighs.

_ “Ma tigresse,” _ Leliana says tenderly, stroking her cheek. Morrigan nearly forgets to breathe.

“Stay with me.”

Leliana stays. 

— 

Breakfast in the morning has the potential to be an awkward affair, but Kieran smooths things over with his strange, yet polite manner of speech, introducing himself to “Sister Nightingale” and requesting pancakes for breakfasts in the same sentence.

“Come with me to Skyhold,” Leliana says, feeding Morrigan grapes with her hand. 

She doesn’t tease Leliana by drawing out her answer or pretending to ponder it over before ultimately replying with acerbic humor as she would’ve done a decade ago. Morrigan chews up the grape, swallows it down, and pulls Leliana in for a sweet kiss. 

Morrigan tells her, “we will come to Skyhold.” 

Leliana’s smile outshines the stars in sky. 


End file.
